The Scars of Gotham
by Lizewski
Summary: Wilson Marlowe goes on a small odyssey through the ruins of Bane's Gotham City on Christmas Eve with life-changing results. OC & Selina K./Catwoman


***I do not own Batman or any of the assorted characters or settings that are the property of DC Comics and Time Warner. This is not for profit.**

Wilson Marlowe could feel his throat choking on his own bile as he was dragged out of the "People's Court." He knew to swallow it and not let them see him shrink anymore than they already had. Besides, he loved his pinstriped suit, even if it was worn and tattered from being on his back for most of the last three months. It was the first suit he purchased in Gotham and now it's the suit he'll wear when _they_ "exiled" him from the city.

Crane sneered the word, "exile." He didn't know who Crane was, but as he awaited trial with the trust fund babies in the court for the last five days, he heard conflicting stories. He once was a drug dealer from nine years ago who called himself "the Scarecrow." Or he was a terrorist who tried to unleash a bioweapon on the city that would have driven everyone mad. _Guess they dodged that bullet_, Wilson would sneer to himself. Every night on the freezing floor of what was once City Hall, Wilson lay awake, asking himself why he came to Gotham. Even though they cleaned it up nearly a decade ago after that clown's terrorist attacks, the city still had the reputation of being Hell on Earth. Deep down, Wilson knew he came to Gotham for one real reason: _money_. He wasn't rich like those other poor bastards that Crane's been judging for months. He came from the suburbs of Maryland. He'd gone to Georgetown and got his business degree. It all seemed so simple. Get into a private school, make some money, get the MBA, and then the wife, the kids, the Porsche and the dog. Instead, he'd spent the last three years out of school killing himself for an investment bank in the financial district. _All to make money._ Money he could never spend and was about as worthless to him now as the snow caressing in his hair on its slow drift towards steps of "Court."

"Death or exile," the Scarecrow calmly asked him five minutes ago like he was taking a lunch order. Wilson knew exile meant death, but he couldn't bring himself to just accept that fate. He knew he was standing on the edge of the abyss and anything that kept him from going over a little longer seemed like sweet salvation at this point.

"Exi…" was all he managed to mumble out before his voice cracked. Thanks to this goddamn city, he was going to spend his final Christmas Eve floating under a sheet of ice with the hundreds of other "haves" feeding the fish. He shuddered as they approached the car. It was a simple white van from the latter half of the last decade. Only _Bane _and those he deemed the "People of Gotham" were allowed to even drive vehicles since the Revolution began. Wilson had a terrible feeling when the masked freak had taken control of the Stock Exchange before it all started. But there was _money_ to be made and the chances it could happen to him were so remote. After the bridges went out and the cops disappeared, he found himself sleeping in an alleyway because his apartment building was on fire. It was only a matter of time before the "People" got him. When the snow came, he tried to find someplace warmer. They found him cowering in the public library and simply by the stripes on his suit deemed him worthy of the People's Court. He knew he should have changed, but he loved this suit.

Out by the van stood two other Blackgate goons in orange jump suits holding automatic assault rifles. They were laughing about something and Wilson wasn't sure if it was at his expense. He didn't have the balls to look them in the eye.

"Can you do this by yourself?" one of them snorted. _They want me to just kill myself right here?_ His terror subsided when he realized they were talking over him to the thug escorting him.

"Why the fuck should I haul their asses by myself?" he shot back. From the way he slurred _fuck_, Wilson knew he was drunk.

"We got these girls in Uptown who are just _ready_ to bring it." Wilson knew from these two goons' appearance that that was as a bigger load than Bane's claims of "liberating" the city.

"Why would any chick be willing to spread her legs for either of you jackasses," the first thug retorted.

"Because if they ever say no, we promise to _take their parents to Crane._" Wilson's intoxicated captor only sighed.

"Go on, just know you owe me." They walked off laughing as Wilson was shoved in the van next to two other sorry bastards. They were older men with sorrowful, defeated looks on their faces. The clothes they wore cost more than the young man's first car and he knew they were once masters of their own universes. Now, they were going to die with him under cracking glass before Christmas morn would come. Wilson couldn't meet their eyes.

They sat quietly the whole drive down to the lower east side of Gotham's main island. The car stopped a few blocks away from the water. They'd have to make the rest of the funeral march on foot. As the orange-suited monster pulled Wilson out of the back of the van, the condemned noticed that the van was still running.

"You're just going to leave it on?" Wilson said exasperated.

"Nobody's stupid enough to steal from us….not anymore." He punched Wilson in the stomach. "Now shut your face and let's get this over with quickly."

Wilson nearly tripped as they slid under the old brick bridge that he'd admired so much when he was a boy…admired from afar from the real Gotham. The two old men couldn't walk down the icy slope fast enough, so their captor kicked them down.

"Who wants to go first?" The goon looked around and sighed again at his victims' pathetic silence. "I said, WHO WANTS TO GO FIRST?" After another moment of awkward silence, he lifted his assault weapon and fired one shot into one of the old men's legs. He cried out a pain like that of a coyote caught in a trap. "Thanks for volunteering, pops." The doomed man looked mortified at his attacker. "By the way, if you don't hurry, I'll put another in your face."

The old man, began limping across the ice in a waddle that resembled a dying penguin. Despite fear gnawing at Wilson's soul, the banality of this ceremony was not lost on him. Sure enough, the ice cracked and the old man disappeared under the white sheen into a cold, watery grave. The thug pointed the gun at the other old man and between hiccups mumbled, "You're next." He made it further than the last by about thirty yards before he too descended into chilling darkness. Wilson was practically urinating himself.

"Okay, college kid, get out there." Wilson's useless life flashed before his eyes. Arguing with his parents about staying up late, Prom, his first girlfriend, his first ex-girlfriend, college, parties, and stopping to have fun to make _money_. Wilson finally looked up to see the gun was practically pushed against his forehead. "Go."

"No."

"Just go, I don't want to waste the bullets."

"No."

"Seriously, preppy?" _I'm not going to die here. Not today. Not like this._

"NO!" Before his drunken executioner knew what happened, Wilson ripped the gun out of his hands and emptied four rounds of a clip into him. He didn't even realize he was doing it until he saw the pool of red wash up to his faded shoes. _Did I…_

Before he let himself finish his thought, he was booking it back to the van. It sat where the dead idiot left it. Nobody was on the streets to see the shooting. There were no sirens and no passerbys. Everyone who was still alive at this point knew to stay off the streets…especially at night. Every night was Silent Night since Bane. Wilson opened the door to the driver's seat and stared at the keys in the ignition. _It's so easy._ He could drive off before any of those Blackgate asshats knew what happened.

"Get in quick!" Wilson tried to twirl his head around before a hand pushed him into the car. "You can drive, just go!" The voice slammed Wilson's door shut and flew open the back to the van. He tossed in three large red barrels and one brown box with metal rattling inside. The stranger quickly scrambled in himself and slammed the door shut with his foot while climbing into the passenger seat. "GO!" Without a second thought, Wilson put the car in drive and pushed the accelerator to the floor.

They had been driving for five minutes in complete quiet when Wilson finally found the courage to look at his companion. It was a thin man dressed in heavy brown and gray wools with a ratty gray hoodie covering most of his face and green scarf covering the rest. He obviously has been dressing for the streets and winter much better than Wilson has.

"Wilson Marlowe," he finally said holding out his hand.

"Joe," the man responded after giving his hand the briefest of shakes.

"What are those," the younger said gesturing to the boxes in the back.

"Supplies." Wilson nodded at the obviousness of the response.

"What kind of supplies?"

"I'll tell you later, Willy…but you'd better go right here." Wilson would have inquired again, but he saw the flash of light in the mirrors as well. It was the beacon of doom.

"YOU STOLE FROM BANE?"

"Just drive…a little faster would be nice." Wilson banked the turn hard and began winding down every street corner he could find. He didn't dare look behind him, but flew through the empty streets like the roads, the medians, and even the sidewalks were part of the Indy 500 racetrack. Their POS van turned out to be pretty damn fast and they formed a dizzying maze around the streets of Gotham. After a quarter of an hour with no lights behind them, Wilson's heart finally started beating again.

"So, what is so important that you stole from Bane for?"

"Maybe I just wanted something to open for Christmas," Joe half-snorted to himself. Wilson slammed on the brakes.

"You almost got us killed. I just jumped out of the frying pan only to have you shoving me in the fire. Tell me what's so bloody important or I leave you here for Bane to find." Joe took a deep breath.

"They're for the Batman." _The Batman_?

"He's dead…everyone's heard the stories of how Bane killed him and ate his brain."

"I've only heard he devoured the heart…either way, it's baloney."

"Baloney?"

"_The Batman_ _must come back._ When he does, I'll be there ready for him." Joe's heavily coated hand reached back and tapped on his boxes. "Guns, ammunition and gasoline for those who still believe in Gotham. Batman will need me." _One revolutionary is as bad as another._ Wilson put the car back in drive and turned another street. He could see the first strands of daylight through the falling snow. Even in a place as miserable as this no man's land, the winter morning still was as wondrous as when he was a child. He'll make it to Christmas morning, after all. Joe reached over and started feeling his driver's very shaggy and greasy long hair. Suddenly, Wilson felt embarrassed.

"You've got nice…nicer clothes, Willy. And the stiffness of entitlement. You've been counting money all your life."

"Never enough," said an uncomfortably self-aware Marlowe.

"However much you had, it didn't buy you common sense. Why are you dressed like that when Bane and Crane are hunting down anyone with…such soft hands?"

"…I like this suit." Their car turned onto a street the driver once imagined he could afford living on one day. Last Christmas, Park Avenue had been the most desirable real estate in Gotham. For this year's holidays, it looks like it has been bombed more times than Fallujah. The fires were long gone and most of the luxurious buildings still stood, but they were occupied by the poor and downtrodden who fled to the neighborhood like refugees thinking they were safer in France than Germany.

"Eyes on the road, Willy. This is _The Cat's_ neighborhood."

"Is that one of Bane's underlings?"

"**No.** She has carved out this neighborhood for those she deems worthy. Screw with her—and many men try—you'll end up…" Joe trailed off when they saw the lights flash behind them.

"BANE," Wilson yelped. They were on a long, straight street with no turns for half a mile. Marlowe's pedal foot was touching the floor again, but there was no way on such a straight shot that he'd be able to outgun the black SUV gaining behind him. His mind went to pieces about what to do when he heard a screech. The SUV behind them erupted into a firey ball of death. The burning cage on wheels still managed to find the rear of Joe and Wilson's car as they flipped into blackness.

When Wilson's eyes opened, a woman with filthy blonde curls was pulling him out of the vehicle. Joe was behind her leaning against an obsolete light post. His head was down as he breathed hard.

"C'mon…" the dirty girl was shouting, but Wilson's hearing and senses were still struggling to return. "C'MON RICH BOY! WE NEED TO BE OFF THE STREETS BEFORE MORE OF BANE'S MEN SHOW UP!" Wilson nodded in compliance and slowly stumbled to his feet. He and Joe followed her into a back alley next to a seven-story building. There was a makeshift ladder waiting for them.

"Up we go," the girl said, putting her hand on Wilson's ass to rush him up. Eventually, they reached the roof of the building and looked down at the orange glow on the wet, white streets. Somehow, it was kind of beautiful. "Merry Christmas," she snarked, before pulling a thick blanket over her body. She produced a flask from somewhere on her person and tossed it to Joe who was already sitting on one of the extravagant leather sofas sitting abandoned on the roof like they were used for a camp sight.

"Ah, eggnog," Joe chuckled before taking a small sip and throwing it to its owner. Wilson realized he was terribly cold and pulled his tattered suit closer to his body and stepped away from the ledge where the girl's still smoking rocket launcher lay all used-up. He sat down in a very comfortable recliner and put his legs up for the first time in eons. Wilson sighed as he noticed Joe brought up his gas and bullets all for a Batman who didn't exist anymore.

"So what brings you two to our territory?"

"_Our_?" Wilson said with raised eyebrows.

"The name's Holly." _As if that means something?_ Wilson shook his head. "Let's just say, I have the Cat's back." Wilson shrugged and lay back and closed his eyes. He let the falling snow roll down his cheeks. Despite probably catching pneumonia, this was the most comfortable he'd ever felt.

"We should tell stories," Wilson blurted out. The other two looked at him blankly. "It's Christmas. Every Christmas morning after we'd open our stockings and before we opened our presents under the tree, my parents would tell my sister and I stories of Christmases past." Joe started laughing his ass off at that. Holly refrained to a mere incessant giggling.

"…Okay," she finally said. "For Christmas one year, I got a black eye from my dad for asking why there were no presents. I got one from my mom the next for asking why there was no dad." Wilson took a deep breath, letting the snow reach down to his lungs. These people were as alien to him as he was to they.

He must have fallen asleep, it couldn't have been for more than a few minutes as the sun had still not truly risen, but he was awakened by his shaking wrist. When he opened his eyes, Holly was trying to pull his Omega watch from the wrist. Wilson didn't know if he should laugh or cry at first. The watch had been a gift from his parents and he realized the only reason she must have saved his and Joe's lives with her rocket was so as to rob them blind.

"What are you doing," Wilson said wearily.

"What's it look like? This will feed me for next week!"

"Money," Wilson mumbled under his breath.

"What," Holly responded after finally freeing watch.

"Money," Wilson said again with a sharper pang of anger. His blood began to boil. "It's always about MONEY with _you people_!"

"Hey asshole, I just saved your life."

"SO WHAT?" Wilson was sitting up with a rage he did not know he had. "You save it one moment so you might end it the next to scavenge my corpse?" Wilson was on his feet and before he knew what he was doing, he had her by the arm.

"Let go, dumbass," she cried. She clearly was actually panicking. Wilson saw his hand holding her, but couldn't feel in control of it. His body…his soul was cleansing itself on her without his approval. His hand pushed her to the ground and was holding her there when he heard Joe.

"Uh-uh, shouldn't have done that, Willy." He looked over and Joe was still on the couch cradling the flask. For a moment, Wilson didn't understand. Then he felt a sharpness in his leg. He collapsed to his knees as a black silhouette moved around his body. Wilson was dazed from his immediate pain by the hypnotic movements of this shade's curves. Its gait was more an entrancing seduction than a walk.

"You okay," it said as it pulled Holly to her feet in one smooth motion. The spell fading and the pain resurging, Wilson was able to understand what he was looking at. A woman in tight black leather with curves he wanted to get lost in was standing above him. Despite the cold and the hellacious nature of this brave new world, her hair was perfectly combed in a dark brunette river that fell past her shoulders. Her lips were lusciously red and her striking dark eyes were shrouded in a dark mask. She also had what appeared to be cat ears on her head.

"The Cat," Wilson almost giggled out. He felt another sharp kick, this time to his chest and he fell back onto the icy cement. She towered over him and stuck her silver-tinged steel stiletto over his throat. The gap between the foot and the heel was especially sharp and unpleasant around his jugular.

"You thought you could lay a hand on one of my people in _**my neighborhood**_," she hissed out between gritted teeth.

"Are you their protector," Wilson moaned.

"From scum like you," she replied, this time in more of a purr.

"Me?"

"Those who think the world belongs to them because they were told it does. Those who are offended that their lot should be just as accountable as mine."

"Why do you think I'm one of _'them_?'"

"Because of the way you dress."

"Funny…I was thinking the same thing about you…and all the other masked lunatics in this town." She dug her sharp heel in tighter and Wilson could feel it cut beneath the skin.

"I wear a mask because people like you force me to do what I have to do to survive. You call me a thief, but you probably stole entire lives every time you went to work downtown."

"I didn't create the system." Wilson could taste his own blood as he said that.

"Oh you were only following orders," the Cat scoffed. "Here's another one for you Eichmann, go to hell."

"Enough," Joe said loudly and authoritatively as he stood up from his couch. "He's just having a bad day and is out of his depth. And he's leaving with me." She looked over at Joe for the first time.

"You?"

"Me, darling." She let the pressure of her shoe off of Wilson's neck for the first time in a minute.

"So you're both gone?"

"You have my word. You'll never see him again in this neighborhood." She strutted over Wilson's sprawled out body to Joe. Even after nearly killing him, he still couldn't take his eyes off that ass.

"Fine," she whispered like a threat. "But we're keeping your gas and your ammo."

"They're…mine," Joe seethed from under his scarf.

"I'm going to need them. In an hour or so Bane's goons are going to patrol through here and when they see one of their cars on fire with dead men, they're going to want to talk to me. I'll need something to trade them back so they don't cause any trouble." For what felt like an eternity, Joe just nodded his hooded head as he considered her offer for Wilson's life. Clearly, he'd be the other prize she could turn in to Bane.

"Fine. We have a deal." For the first time since she appeared, the Cat smirked. Even though he hated her, Wilson realized he was rapidly falling head-over-heels in love with her too.

"Now, get out of my neighborhood."

.

It was another hour of walking in the cold before they reached one of Joe's apparently many hideouts. He opened the door to an abandoned building that looked like it was half-demolished from the outside.

"No locks," Wilson asked.

"No need," Joe said loudly. "From the outside this building looks like it has nothing to loot to those who don't know. And for those who do…well, they know not to steal from here." They entered the main floor of what was once a lobby. There were crates and boxes littered around. They were all open and they were full of guns, bullets and other assorted weaponry.

"Your arsenal to help the Batman," Wilson smiled. He almost put 'the Batman' in air quotes.

"Help?" Joe started taking off his heavy layers of clothing. "I never said anything about _helping_ the Batman." Wilson had had a headache since his run-in with the Cat and hadn't slept well in a month, much less last night. He felt his brain begin to throb and put his hands against his temples.

"But you said…"

"I said these weapons are for the Batman when he returns. And he **will** return. When he does, he will bring order and stability back to Gotham. The kind of true order we haven't seen since…Harvey Dent." Joe lifted his hood and pulled away his scarf. "And when he does, _I will be ready for him_," he said in a sing-song voice. "He _needs_ me."

Wilson's heart stopped. He didn't recognize the face immediately, but he remembered it being associated with…bad things. It was an ugly face covered in white pancake make-up, drowned in strands of messy green hair. And there were scars around his lips. His red lips. _It's him. The one from eight years ago. The one who…_

"You look nervous," Joe said to his guest.

"T-terrorist," is the only word Wilson knew. He'd read about those events when he was just a kid.

"You need to calm down….I know…You'd like a story." It was then that Wilson Marlowe noticed the razor in the other man's hand. He felt a warm liquid running down his leg and ruining his suit.

"Do you want to know how I got my scars? It was Christmas..."

* * *

_**If you read this story, please leave a review. I promise to try to respond to them all. Any thoughts about how it could be expanded are also welcome.**_


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